


Downton Abbey: A Typical Morning

by Meltha



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Gen, Humor, Parody, Screenplay/Script Format, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-13 09:45:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3376940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meltha/pseuds/Meltha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You know, the Crawleys really are a bit odd, but then so is everyone else on this show.  Affectionate hyperbole and idiocy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Downton Abbey: A Typical Morning

**Author's Note:**

> No copyright infringement is intended, and no profit is made from this work.

::As piano music plays, a close up on a view of the abbey, Isis (named after the Egyptian goddess, not the terrorist group) wagging her tail, a chandelier, a leaf falling off a plant, a shoe, a cork, a badly painted picture of Elvis on black velvet, a pair of overalls, a feather duster, a lamp that is now five years out of date for the time period, and a Furby.::

Mary: Mah-mah? (Well, that's how she says it.)

Cora: Yes, dear?

Mary: I'm going into London today, so I shan't be home until Thursday.

Cora: All right, dear, have a good time. Are you taking George?

Mary: Who?

Cora: George? Your son? The one you almost never mention?

Mary: Oh, yes, him. I adore him. Where did I put him again?

Anna: Oh, Barrow found him up the nursery chimney this morning.

Cora: Good heavens! Is he all right?

Mary: Mah-mah, do stop being so American and having emotions! It's embarrassing all of us.

Anna: Right as rain, m'lady. A bit dirty, but he's in good order.

Mary: Oh, good. I'd hate to have to find another distant relation to marry and bear a child with to avoid our eviction on Pah-pah's death.

::Anna and Cora give her an extremely mild case of stinkeye::

Mary: What?

::enter Robert and Isis, WHO IS NOT DYING. If nobody else on this show has aged 13 years, why should she?::

Cora: How was your visit to the village, dear?

Robert: Lovely. I played cricket and argued about a war memorial's location due to my traditional stance versus the modern  
world. Oh, and I threw someone out of the dining salon a few minutes ago.

Cora: What? Who?

Robert: Oh, whomever was standing about in there. I'm making a weekly habit of it.

Anna: That'd be Molesly. Would you like me to fetch him back to work as first footman again, m'lord?

Robert: Carson, what's your opinion?

::Carson appears from behind a drapery where he has been standing, waiting to be called upon for just such an emergency::

Carson: Yes and no. We've already stipulated that first footman is far too much of an ego stroking for him, what with his loneliness, his inability to marry, the idea that everyone thinks he's older than he actually is, and his lack of education already making him far too full of himself. He can continue being a footman who does all the first footman's duties, though, just without the title.

Anna: Yes, Mr. Carson, sir.

::exit Anna, and with her, most of the sense in the household::

::Isis follows her and IS NOT DYING::

Robert: So what have you been up to, Mary dear?

Mary: Oh, I've received ten proposals by the morning post, including three from barrons, two from earls, and one from the President of the United States.

Cora: Isn't Mr. Coolidge already married?

Mary: How should I know? Does it really matter? All men love me on sight with no exceptions.

::Barrow, passing by on his way down from the nursery after rescuing George, snorts loudly and is slapped with a Look of Doom from Carson, then continues on his way. Mary notices nothing.::

Robert: Are any of them acceptable?

Mary: No. I still miss Matthias. No one will ever live up to his memory.

Cora: You mean Matthew, don't you, dear?

Mary: Mmm, yes, I suppose so. Is there any tea?

Cora: Carson, could you bring a pot of tea, please?

Carson: Very good, m'lady.

::exits to tell Mrs. Patmore to make tea and grumble a bit in Mrs. Hughes's general direction, which is very nearly an obscene level of affection for the British during this time period::

Edith (entering, wearing black): Good morning.

Mary: Oh. It's you. Why are you wearing that horrid dress?

Edith: I'm in mourning for Michael Gregson. Remember?

Mary: Oh. Right. I do hope Carson brings the tea soon. I'm quite parched.

Robert: Yes, tea would be the thing just now. And hopefully a crumpet.

Edith: Does anyone mind if I sit on the sofa and stare bleakly into the hearth?

Mary: Do we ever?

Edith: Not really, no.

::Edith sits down and wears an expression of such deep inner turmoil and agony that most people would assume she is experiencing the late stages of appendicitis. No one does notice, however.::

Meanwhile, below stairs...

Mrs. Patmore: Daaazeh, aren't those blessed crumpets ready yet?

Daisy: In a moment, Mrs. Patmore. Mr. Carson only told us they wanted tea three minutes ago.

Mrs. Patmore: Well, I'm not keepin' you about here to look mooney eyed and try to do things above your station like learning to read and count and such like.

Daisy: I can't go on with me studyin' cause Miss Buntin' left. I liked her.

Mrs. Patmore: We know. When you actually started a fan club for her and made little badges that said "Bunting or Bust!" we did get the point.

Daisy: Yeah, I suppose so. She was so wonderful, though. Don't you miss her, Anna?

Anna: I thought she was a bit annoying meself, but that's neither here nor there.

Mr. Bates (who I can't seem to call anything other than Mr. Bates): You find her annoying? Hmm. (hides a VERY LARGE KNIFE in his coat and leaves the room)

Barrow: Is George cleaned up? Her ladyship won't even look at him if he's not.

Mrs. Hughes: Clean enough to squeak. You really did do a wonderful thing there, Thomas.

Barrow: Oh, right. I forgot about that bit. Now I have to balance it. Hang on a mo'. Has anyone seen Baxter about?

Baxter: I'm right here, looking forlorn and rather trembly.

Barrow: Right. I'm going to threaten you pointlessly with blackmail everybody already knows now and look ridiculously evil and terrifying for no apparent reason other than to make everyone wonder if I'm supposed to be a good character or an evil one or what. Then I'll pine over Jimmy, who nobody else called Jimmy.

Daisy: I'm a widow.

::everyone stares at her::

Daisy: Just thought I'd point that out since everyone forgets that. Plus if I got married in 1918 or so and it's 1925 now, how bleedin' old am I supposed to be again? I've been 18 for the last 14 years.

Telegram boy: Telegram!

Mr. Carson: Give it here. Hmm. This is dreadful.

Mrs. Hughes: Why, what's the matter?

Mr. Carson: I've just received word Miss Bunting was killed with a very large knife.

::Anna, Mrs. Hughes, and Baxter stare in terror at one another, then at the chair Mr. Bates just vacated::

Mrs. Hughes: Oh... how... um... terrible. And none of us know anything about it. Right?

Others: Right!

::enter Mr. Bates wiping blood off his hands. Everyone stares, then looks away.::

Mr. Bates: What's the matter? I just had to go kill a chicken for Sunday's dinner.

Anna: Oh, I knew it wasn't you!

::as she hugs him, he slips a VERY LARGE KNIFE out of his pocket and puts it in his suitcase along with a container of poison and a ripped return ticket from London, none of which anyone notices::

::Meanwhile, upstairs, the dowager countess has arrived with Isobel::

Mary: Granny, it's so lovely to see you.

Violet: Yes, yes, but there's a bit of problem that needs attending to.

Isobel: Hello, I'm Harriet Jones, former prime minister!

::Robert, Cora, Violet, Mary, and Edith all ignore this. A man in a big blue box steps out of the dining room, gives a hearty and pleasant "We know!" and then gets back in his box and goes away with a vworp-vworp-vworp noise. Again, they all choose to ignore this.::

Robert: What problem, mamma?

Violet: Well, I need a new butler. Spratt really did mean it when he resigned. Can you imagine?

Isobel: And I came by to see my grandchild. Where's little George?

Mary: I think it was the nursery chimney this time.

Isobel: Again?

Edith: I'm sorry to interrupt, but it appears my right arm has just spontaneously fallen off.

::Indeed, it's laying on the carpet.::

Mary: Mmm, yes. Carson will have your head for that mess you know. Where is Carson? It's taking him far too long to bring that tea.

Cora: I agree. We've all been highly patient.

Edith: I do believe I'm bleeding out. Could someone, I don't know, give me a towel? A hankie? Something?

Robert: I do hope he brings some crumpets.

Edith: Look, I realize I lost the man I loved to Mary in the opening episode of the series even though she hated him, was jilted at the altar in front of the entire town, left mysteriously for over a year with no one wondering where I was, and just realized the love my life was beaten to death by Hitler when he was making a nearly nonsensical trip to Munich for no reason at all, and no one really noticed any of it, but I really do think I need a bit of medical attention.

Isobel: Oh, I can do that! By the way, none of you should live in this house, you know. It's entirely ridiculous and completely against modern times. In fact, I think I'll go on about at length for a while before marrying Lord Merton and living in an even larger country house.

Edith: Could you possibly do that while you bandage my severed arm? It's rather painful.

Mary: Edith, do stop complaining. It's tiresome.

::Carson enters with the tea, but no crumpets::

Robert: No crumpets! Is this your way of saying that the social levels between all the different levels of civilization are crumbling?

Carson: No, m'lord. Daisy burned the crumpets.

Mary: Burned the crumpets!

Cora: Burned the crumpets!

Robert: Burned the crumpets!

Edith: My arm has fallen off! Hang the crumpets!

Cora: Edith, watch your language. There is no excuse for being impolite.

Carson: I'm dreadfully sorry, m'lord. I'll see that she's properly shunned for at least the next three years.

Robert: Yes, do. I never particularly liked Hydrangea.

Carson: Daisy.

Robert: As it may be. I still think she's the one who put that "Bunting or Bust!" badge on my dinner jacket.

Mary: But haven't I suffered enough without having no crumpets at all! Oh, and look at my shoes! No one has commented on my daring and modern shoes!

::All murmur their appreciation of said shoes, except Edith, who passes out into the fireplace.::

Carson: Good heavens! Lady Edith!

Mary: Mmm. I'm going for a ride. Tom?

::Tom, the former chauffeur as opposed to Thomas the gay butler, enters::

Tom: Good morning, I... What's wrong with Edith!

Mary: Such a good question on any given day. Would you care to go look at the farmer's new pigsty? You can drive, can't you?

Tom: Her arm's off and there's blood all over the floor and she's unconscious!

Mary: Well, there's no need to make a fuss!

::a group of Russian refugees arrives, picks up Edith, and carries her off::

Tom: And now she's being abducted by former Russian aristocrats!

Mary: Well, that's part of the mess fixed. So, will you drive me into town?

Tom: You people are all mad, you know that!

Cora: Now, Tom, you just don't still understand how these things are handled in our circles yet.

Carson: Excuse me, m'lord, but the police are here with questions about a murder?

Robert: What, that Mr. Green again?

Carson: No.

Robert: The former Mrs. Bates?

Carson: No.

Robert: Miss Bunting?

Carson: No, though how you heard about that is confusing. No, they're here about Mr. Pamuk.

Mr Bates, from below stairs: That was NOT me!

Mary: Oh, I have an appointment in town.

::Mary runs out the door abruptly with lavish music playing in the background as Rose enters::

Tom: Rose, can you please talk some sense into these people?

Rose: Me? I was introduced as a man-hungry trollop who was snogging a married man twice my age on a jazz dance floor in London three seasons ago, which should be about seven years, and now I'm about 19 and strangely much more refined and less crazed for no apparent reason. I'm not exactly the picture of sanity myself.

Tom: I'm getting out of here. Sibby?

::Sibby enters::

Sibby: Daddy?

Tom: We're leaving. Say goodbye.

Sibby: Bye, Donk!

Robert: Why must she call me that?

Violet: Donk?

Robert: Apparently I am a donkey.

Violet: How amusing! Well, if you're leaving, Tom, could you drop me off at the train station on the way?

Tom: Fine. Which one?

Violet: Platform Nine and th... ehm, nine. Nine will be entirely adequate. I'll be away a few months, dears. Try not to get into trouble.

::As Violet, notgayIrish!Tom, Sibby, and Isis, who is no fool, drive off, the ENTIRE ABBEY IMPLODES, leaving everyone else standing about in the carriageway::

Rose: That was unexpected.

Robert: Quite, Rose.

::The blue box returns and the same man, highly excited, comes running out of it.::

Man: Did you say Rose?!

Rose: Yes, I'm Rose.

Man: Oh. False alarm.

::The box vworps away again, and Daisy appears from the remains of the kitchen::

Daisy: I've brung crumpets!

Robert: Well, things worked out after all.

Cora: They always do, dear. They always do.

::In the background, Edith is spirited away by the Russians for no apparent reason, then is hit by a piano, a meteorite, and a  
rabid wolverine in succession before falling over a cliff into a vat of acid.::

Edith: Ow.

Mary: Oh, do shut up.

::Piano music ensues::


End file.
